Part 6 (2/2)

”And so thou sawst me slain!” said Henry de Montfort dryly.

”But how-how was it?” asked Richard eagerly.

”Men sometimes tie knots faster than they intend,” said Henry. ”When Roger Mortimer took Simon's doings in wrath, and vowed that his sister should never wed a Montfort, he knew not what he did. He and his proud wife could flout and scorn my Isabel-they might not break her faith to me. Thou knowst, perhaps, Richard, since thou art hand and glove with our foes, that like a raven to the slaughter, the Lady Mortimer came as near the battle-field as her care for her dainty person would allow; and there was one whom she brought with her. And, gentle dame, what doth she do but carry her sister-in-law a sweet and womanly gift? What thinkst thou it was, Richard?”

”I fear I know,” said Richard, choked; ”my father's hand.”

”Nay, that was a choicer morsel reserved for my lady countess herself. It was mine own, with our betrothal-ring thereon. Now, quoth that loving sister, might Isabel resume her ring. No plighted troth could be her excuse any longer for refusing to wed my Lord of Gloucester. Then rose up my love, 'It beckons me!' she said, and bade them leave it with her. They deemed that it was for death that it beckoned. So mayhap did she. I wot Countess Maud had little grieved. But little dreamed they of her true purpose-my perfect jewel of constant love-namely, to restore the lopped hand to the poor corpse, that it might likewise have Christian burial. Her old nurse, Welsh Winny, was as true to her as she was to me; and forth they sped, fearless of the spoilers, and made their way at nightfall even to the Abbey Church, where Edward, less savage than the fair countess, had caused us to be laid before the altar, awaiting our burial in the vaults.”

”Thou wert senseless all this time?”

”Ay, and so continued. The pang when my hand was severed had roused me for a few moments, but only to darkness; and my effort to speak had been rewarded with as many Welsh knives as could pierce my flesh at once.”

”And thou didst not bleed to death?”

”The swoon checked my blood. And the monks of Evesham must have staunched and bandaged so as to make a decent corpse of me. Had they had a man-at-arms among them, they would have known that mine were not the wounds of a dead but of a living man. The old nurse knew it, when my sweet lady would needs unbind my wrist, to place my hand in its right place. An old crone such as Welsh Winny never stirs without her cordial potion. They poured it into my lips-and if I were never more to awake to the light of day, I awoke to the sound that was yet dearer to me-while, alas! it still was left to me.”

He became silent, till Richard's question drew him on.

”What with their care and support, when once on my feet I found strength to stumble out of the chapel and gain shelter in the woods ere day; and I believe the monks got credit for their zeal in casting out the excommunicate body.”

”Not credit,” said Richard; ”the Prince was full of grief, more especially as they all disavowed the deed. But, brother, art thou excommunicate still?”

”Far from it, most pious Crusader. If seas of holy wells could a.s.soil me, I should be pure enough. My sweet Isabel deemed that some such was.h.i.+ng might bring back mine eyesight; and from one to another we wandered as my limbs could bear it. And at St. Winifred's there was a priest who told us strange tales of the miracles wrought in the Mortimer household by my father's severed hand; nay, that it had so worked on Lord Mortimer's sister, that she had left the vanities of the world, and gone into a nunnery. He seemed so convinced of my father's saintliness, and so honest a fellow, that Isabel insisted on unbosoming ourselves to him under seal of confession. No longer was the old nurse to be my mother and she my sister; and the good man made no difficulties, but absolved me, and wedded me to the truest, most loving wife that ever blessed a man bereft of all else.”

”And you begged! O Henry, the n.o.ble lady-”

”At first we had the knightly chain and spurs in which the monks had kindly pranked me up. Isabel too had worn a few jewels; but after all, a palmer need never hunger. My father always said no trade was so well paid as begging, under King Henry, and verily we found it so. She used at times to gather berries and thread them for chaplets to sell at the holy wells; but I trow sheer beggary throve better!”

”But wherefore? Even had pardon not been ready, Simon held out Kenilworth for months.”

Henry laughed his dry laugh.

”Simple boy, dost think I would trust Simon with an elder brother whose hand could no longer keep his head?”

”And my mother-”

”She had always hated the Mortimers, even when the contract was matter of policy. Would I have taken my sweet Isabel to abide her royal scorn, it might be incredulity of our marriage? Though for that matter it is more unimpeachable than her own! Nay, nay, out of ken and out of reach was our only security from our kin on either side, unless we desired that my head should follow my hand as a dainty dish for Countess Maud.”

”How could the lady brook it?”

”She dyed her fair skin with walnut, wore russet gown and hood, and was a very nightingale for blitheness and sweet song through that first year,” said Henry; ”blither than ever when that little one was born in the suns.h.i.+ny days of Whitsuntide. I tell thee, those were happier days than ever I pa.s.sed as Lord de Montfort at Kenilworth. But after that, the bruised hurt in my side, which had never healed when the cleaner gashes did, became more painful and troublesome. Holy wells did nothing for it; and she wasted with watching it, as though my pain had been hers. Naught would serve her but coming here, because she had been told that the Knights of St. John had better experience of old battle-wounds than any men in the realm. Much ado had we to get here-the young babe in her arms, and I well- nigh distraught with pain. We crept into this same hut, and I had a weary sickness throughout the winter-living, I know not how, by the bounty of the Spital, and by the works of her fingers, which Winny would take out to sell on feast-days in the city. Oh that eyes had been left me to note how she pined away! but I had scarce felt how thin and bony were her tender fingers ere the blasts of the cruel March wind finished the work.”

”Alack! alack! poor Henry,” said Richard; ”never, never was lady of romaunt so n.o.ble, and so true!”

”No more,” said Henry hastily, leaning his brow on the top of his staff. ”Come hither, Bessee,” he added after a brief pause; ”say thy prayer for thy blessed mother, child.”

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